


Exceptional Diplomatic Relations

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Italian History - Freeform, M/M, Venetian History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany comes to see Italy and meets someone he'd really rather not have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exceptional Diplomatic Relations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frodolass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frodolass/gifts).



> Warning for (archaic) slurs.
> 
> Written for frodolass as part of GerIta Secret Santa 2014. The prompt was "Germany has unconsciously been pining for Italy and doesn't realize that he is literally all he thinks about until a certain country comes along and threatens to take Italy's affections away from him. Featuring jealous!possessive!Germany, preferably relevant to actual Italian foreign relations with other countries." I substituted intra-Italian relations, I hope you don't mind!

Germany hadn't  _planned_ showing up at Italy's house that day, that was the thing. Truly, he hadn't.

He had just had the extra pie crust left over – he had had that dinner he'd hosted, and he always made his own dessert . It was good to have extra, in case there was a problem. In case the crust tore or he left the first batch in the oven too long and they burned, for instance. (Germany had not burned dinner for guests in at least fifty years, but there was always a first time.) If he left the crust too long it would eventually go bad, and he didn't like to freeze baked goods, so he obviously had to use the extra up.

The extra was enough to make two pies, and he had a bag of apples left over from one of Prussia's batches of home made alcohol. (It was usually stronger alcohol than cider, but Germany gathered Prussia had wanted something weaker to mix with vodka, or something.) Those would go bad if they weren't used as well, and he might as well use up the pecans he had too.

Once they were made, both turning out perfect, unburned and crusts untorn, he realized that even he with his sweet tooth could not eat two pies in any reasonable amount of time, and Prussia was away for a week. (He had known this before he started, of course, but that was irrelevant.)

So it was entirely unplanned that Germany came to be standing on Italy's front door in Venice, clutching a cake container with an apple streusel pie in it, and hoping Italy was home. The lights were on, and he could heard music from the second story. It sounded like some of the fast classical dance music Italy put on when painting.

Germany would not burst into someone's home uninvited. But it was clear that Italy was home, and he had come to bring food, and he couldn't just leave it out on the doorstep. It might be squashed or stepped on. Italy had given him a key some time back, “Just in case you need it!”

It was therefore with the streusel in mind that he located that rarely used key on his ring, unlocked Italy's door, and made his way inside.

He went into the kitchen, moved aside some dirty dishes, and cleared a space on the counter to put the streusel container. The music was still going upstairs. It was fast and upbeat, with several rather manic rushes, and reminded Germany profoundly of Italy.

He turned the kitchen light on, sighed at the mess Italy had left of his kitchen last time he cooked, and without a second thought rolled his sleeves up and began to do the dishes.

Once the dishes were in the drying rack or the dishwasher, the dishwasher was turned on, the counter tops were wiped off, and his hands were washed, he placed the streusel in a slightly better location, less in the way and higher up. (Italy did not have dogs, but Germany was accustomed to worrying about such things. Besides, sometimes he brought his to visit, and Italy would not think to move the food higher in such an eventuality.)

Germany debated interrupting Italy at his work or simply leaving, gift delivered. If he did that, he should probably leave a note, he thought, and crossed into the living room to find one of the notebooks Italy tended to leave everywhere.

He discovered one of them on the couch. Once the light was on to write, he also discovered that Italy had moved a new painting into the room. A woman he didn't know stared down imperiously from the wall, dressed in brilliant red. Her curly black hair was covered only half heartedly by a lacy veil, and the edges spilled out around her face and rather, ah, prominent cleavage.

Or rather an old painting, he thought, going to look closer. Germany had not known such things prior to his friendship with Italy, but after decades of watching him paint, hearing him chatter, and occasionally – well, constantly being taken to art museums (Italy felt the need to attend every new exhibit in the country and most of those in neighboring ones, and did not stop talking for more than fifteen seconds at a time once inside) he felt confident in identifying it as an oil painting from the Renaissance, likely Italy's own country.

Definitely, he corrected himself, recognizing the signature almost hidden against a curl of her hair. The last half of his friend's name was nearly illegible, but Germany had seen the signature written many times. Italy had apparently painted this unknown woman centuries ago, and recently decided that her face should hang on his walls. Germany frowned, realized that he was frowning and corrected his expression sharply to neutral. It was no business of his. He must remember to compliment Italy on the painting.

With that and only that in mind, rather than writing the note he had come into the living room to find paper for, he crossed the hallway to the steps and began to ascend.

He heard unfamiliar laughter in Italy's bedroom, and that might have stalled him if he had been thinking, but apparently that was not something Germany did in Italy's house. Instead, he opened the door and stepped inside to see Italy was not, in fact, painting to the music as he had assumed.

Instead, he was dancing, his arms around a woman in a swirling dress almost certainly made all of silk by the way it flowed (that was Italy's knowledge again) and then he turned her and she laughed again. Her face came into view. Germany became suddenly, viscerally aware that she was most definitely the woman in the painting.

If his brain had been working, he might have done something sensible. He might, for instance, have calmly apologized for intruding, told Italy he had brought him food, and bid him goodbye and farewell until the work week began again. Else, he might have quietly shut the door before they noticed him and left the note after all. They seemed quite absorbed in each other and had not seen him yet.

Instead, he let out a startled curse, and then something he  _meant_ to be an apology but which came out as an incoherent series of isolated sounds he could not decipher himself, let alone expect Italy to. Then he turned and fled.

Germany should have left at that point, and in fact he planned to, but he had to stall at the door to work out which of the keys was the one to Italy's house again – he could not leave the door to the house unlocked behind him, that would be very rude – and Italy came up behind him.

“Germany!” he said, sounding shocked. Germany would have been shocked as well if someone he had not expected to have in his house had come upon him – well, he didn't do those sorts of things with unknown women. But if he had, he would have been shocked.

“I'm, I'm sorry,” he said, getting the words out in the right order that time. “I didn't realize you were – occupied, or mean to interrupt--”  
  
“Germany, caro mio, you didn't interrupt, everything's fine--” There was a hand on Germany's shoulder, now. “Only what are you doing here? You came to visit me?”

Germany turned to him and found, contrary to his expectations, that Italy was smiling. Of course, Italy smiled almost constantly, up to and including when he was pointing a gun at someone's head, but this was not that sort of smile. It was a real one that stretched to his eyes and made them soft. Just now they were also shining with what appeared to be concern.

“I brought you a pie,” he found he was saying. “There were leftovers, and I made more than was reasonable for one person.”

“Thank you!” Italy leaned forward and kissed his cheeks. Germany had already been, embarrassingly enough, blushing, but now he was sure his face was horribly red. “You're always baking and it's so nice when you bring me things, what kind of pie was it?”

“Apple streusel,” he said, awkwardly smiling.

At that point the woman from the painting came down the stairs behind them.

“Can you give us a minute please, tesoro,” said Italy.

The woman replied irritably, “Honestly, Veneto, is this another of your catam--”

“ _Lombardy,_ please,” Italy said hastily.

Germany wondered Veneto? for half a second before connecting it to the greater region Venice was located in – and of course, Lombardy was the richest region in Italy and bordered this one to the west – and then he registered that the end of the sentence was likely 'catamites' and felt his mind go blank for several seconds.

She can't possibly have meant that, he thought, and was almost instantaneously proven wrong when she continued “Germany, right?” and without waiting for confirmation “ _Veneto_ he's less than a tenth of your age have you no standards at  _all_ \--”

“You don't have to call him a catamite!”

“Well if he's your lover he  _is_ I've seen what you--”

Germany got up and exited to the kitchen. He then deliberately shut the door – fortunately Italy's kitchen had doors – and sat down at the table. His hands were shaking. He put them on his legs, and when this did not steady them, into his pockets.

So the woman Italy had painted and danced with was another part of Italy, and it was not just her painting which was in his house. 

Also, she thought he was Italy's, ah, lover. He considered her particular choice of words, and then resolved to never consider it again.

And she was offended by this. She thought she had a  _right_ to be offended by this. Germany told himself that Italy had never made any promises to him, that they were not, in fact, involved. It had clearly only been wishful thinking that made him imagine all those art gallery visits and dinners and occasionally dance lessons as dates; Italy would have  _said_ something otherwise and he had absolutely no right to be angry. He should unclench his nails from his fists  _right this instant_ and go.

He was just telling himself this, and might have worked up to following through, when the door to the kitchen flung open and banged against the adjacent wall. Italy stalked in, shouting something that was not at all in standard Italian and thoroughly incomprehensible to Germany. Lombardy was clearly about to follow, eyes flashing angrily, and Germany then did something which proved he had not recovered his ability to think at all.

Specifically, he took two steps out of his chair to where Italy was standing, put his hand on Italy's shoulder to get his attention and kissed him.

He felt Italy stiffen against him for about half of a second and then melt furiously against him. Germany was not _totally_ inexperienced in such matters, but Italy was – quite a bit more so, evidently, and he was yet again unable to think but this was a much more pleasant way of being rendered incapable of thought--

“ _Excuse me,_ ” Lombardy said furiously, and Italy sprang away from him. Germany made a disappointed whining sound and moved to follow. He did not even tell himself off internally for glaring at her.

For one thing, she was glaring impressively back. “Veneto, I cannot _believe_ you.”

“I didn't know he was going to be here, Lombardy but he came to bring food isn't that sweet?” Italy said plaintively, turning and kissing Germany's cheeks. Twice. Germany flushed scarlet again as Italy turned and went over, opening the cake container and beginning to cut slices. “So I realize you wanted to spend the evening talking but I can't just kick him out so why don't we all sit down together? You two go on, sit down!” he added brightly. “Just let me put them together and get some wine, oh, thank you for doing the dishes caro mio.”

“You – you're welcome,” Germany stuttered, and then was moving to the dining room ahead of Lombardy before it occurred to him to protest that he had had no intentions of staying. He tried to regret this, imagined excusing himself and walking away to leave Italy and Lombardy to their evening, and was totally unable to.

He sat down at the dining room table and carefully unwound his clenched fists for the second time in the past ten minutes.

Lombardy sat down across from him with a swirl of skirts, leaned forward, and frowned elaborately. Germany frowned back. Eventually, she said, “Oh, ragazzino, you're really in love with him. You poor thing. _Venezia._ ” Her tone was a curious mix of pity and astonishment.

Germany considered what to say to this and was unable to think of a single thing. He simply stared.

She sighed. “Cucciolo. I apologize for that back there, you must have gotten the wrong impression. I am... less than pleased by Veneto's choices, but I don't have a right to complain. Just – you're very young, and _he_ has never stopped being the Most Serene Republic of Venice, not for one _minute_. Possibly under Austria. Certainly not since.”

“Did you just call me a puppy?” Germany asked. His voice cracked embarrassingly. He shook it off and continued, “I don't understand.”

“Veneto is...” Lombardy hesitated. “Not as harmless as he generally appears. Sweet, certainly but – you must know what empires are like.”

Germany considered this in confusion. For about two seconds. He looked back at the kitchen, through the glass doors, at where Italy was standing on his toes to reach the top shelf and swaying slightly – he could almost hear him humming – and decided he didn't _care_ if Lombardy was telling the truth about why she was concerned. Italy was infuriating and confusing and his, whatever this strange woman from his past said.

He turned back to tell Lombardy this when the doors clattered behind him, making him jump. Italy put down the three plates he was juggling – honestly, how much harder was it to take another trip, it was a miracle he hadn't dropped anything. He then took the seat next to Germany. Germany quickly took Italy's hand and squeezed, and was relieved to receive an answering squeeze.

“Anyway,” Italy said, “I think you should apologize to him for calling him my catamite Lombardy--”

“Apologize! For saying what's true? He's barely over a century old, Veneto, you are _three thousand._ ” And it was back to screaming once they were in the room together, apparently. Germany put his head in his hands.

“ _Now,_ ” Italy said, gesturing firmly, and it had never occurred to Germany that someone should be scared of Italy but Lombardy seemed to draw back in her chair.

Then she sighed again, straightened, and said “I already did before you came in. If you are going to give me La Serenissima's glare, I am going to leave and you can tell me about the affairs of _our country_ another day.” Her chair slammed back and she stalked from the room in a flutter of red silk.

Italy shook his head a little and smiled watching her, then turned to kiss Germany again. Germany closed his eyes and resolved to ask about the picture in a minute, instead putting his hands to much better use in Italy's hair and down his neck and back.

Eventually, though, he had to ask. So before they could get too distracted, he pulled back and said “Why is her picture on the wall?”

Italy blinked at him slowly. “It's just this government thing, nothing important, I promise – I'm so glad you came in when you did Lombardy can be a _real pain_ in about another half an hour I'd have been ready to cry.”

“Italy, please,” Germany said. “Why was she even here? You didn't look upset. You were dancing. It looked--” his voice dropped off.

“Like I said, it's just politics.” Italy made big gesture as though to dismiss the whole of the system that created their existence. “There was the Venetian independence referandum earlier this year – and of course it wasn't official, the government didn't set it up at all but there was such a response!” He grinned then.

“And if a real one happens my people might be independent from Italy! And then it'll just be Romano and he's, um, not very good at diplomacy so I'm supposed to be spending more time with Lombardy. It's North Italian solidarity and all. Which they hope will make my people want independence less, not that it works like that but you know what bosses are like, and if it doesn't Lombardy can take over my job without being totally lost.”

Germany tried to sort through this. “So you might be – leaving Italy.”

“Maybe. I don't think it's very likely at least not right _now,_ but maybe someday soon.”

Germany had become very accustomed to reading Italy's smiles. This one was one he had never seen before, wide and expansive. He imagined for a moment he could see gold glinting in Italy's brown eyes, then dismissed it as a trick of the light.

“So it was really just politics.”

“That's what I've been saying, tesoro!”

“Gott sei danke,” Germany said fervently, and leaned forward to kiss Italy again, grabbing onto his other wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> Ragazzino means little boy. Other Italian is basically all generic endearments. (Cucciolo, or puppy, is an endearment in Italian, yep.)
> 
> Gott sei danke means thank god in German.
> 
> Catamite means, roughly, a boy kept for the purpose of gay sex by an older man. It is a slur, if an archaic one mostly used by very religious bigots. It derives from Latin meaning basically the same thing, if less derogatorily (ancient Rome and Greece institutionalized such practices.)
> 
> The Venetian independence referendum of 2014 was an unofficial and non binding poll organized privately. The people who ran the poll claim that a majority of registered voters voted yes. This is disputed.
> 
> The Most Serene Republic of Venice, also referred to as La Serenissima, was a trading empire that ruled a big chunk of the Mediterranean up until they lost it to the Ottomans. Venezia is Italian for the city of Venice.
> 
> The region of Lombardy borders Veneto to the west, and is the richest and second most populous in Italy. It has been united with Veneto in the past. At one point it was considered synonymous with North Italy.


End file.
